


Light the Past Up (Before it Catches Up)

by callmejude



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Kink, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Open Marriage, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6891790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanda uses Clint to work through her grief. Clint doesn't mind, he has grief of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light the Past Up (Before it Catches Up)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about this.

Clint’s killing time, flipping inattentively through a book when he hears a knock at his door. Nobody should be looking for him. Tony, Tasha and Rhodey are still in DC to talking to the President. He doesn’t know where Steve and Thor have gone, but he knows they’re not here either. 

That leaves two. The Vision wouldn’t knock, and Wanda… Clint’s been avoiding Wanda. He hesitates, considering pretending he’s not in here, but even if she couldn’t sense him through the wall, she knows there’s nowhere else he’d be. With a heavy sigh, Clint gets up and opens the door.

“What —?” Clint’s breath leaves him in a rush and he stands frozen in the doorway. Pietro tilts his head, smirking back at him. 

“We should, ah...talk.” 

Clint knows, in the back of his mind, that it’s Wanda. Even if Pietro were still alive, he’d be able to tell. Pietro doesn’t hold himself that way, heavy and relaxed with a low centre of gravity. He wonders if he can tell because he’s been through this whole mind control bullshit before, or if Wanda is letting him realize, giving him an out because he had been kind to her when the chips were down.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want an out.

He tries not to think about what this means for Wanda. Grief does weird things to people. She’s obviously using this as a way to work through the loss of her brother. Clint doesn’t want to point out how unhealthy that could be. He really has no room to talk.

Briefly, Clint wonders if she knew before he died, the thoughts Clint had about her brother. Fleeting, sure, and fantasy, but still there. She never got a chance to get inside Clint’s head, but maybe he’s not as good at hiding his emotions as he thought.

Wanda kisses him first — no, Clint tells himself, _Pietro_ kisses him first — doesn’t even give Clint a chance, grabs the sides of his face and pulls him down until their mouths slide together, and Clint, despite himself, melts into it.

In his defense, it isn’t really what he had in mind when he first saw the kid. Laura may like to get rough with him in bed sometimes, but he thought he’d at least get the upper hand on someone half his age. He’s embarrassed by how affected he is by it, and wants to blame it on Wanda’s mind tricks, but he knows that’s not her doing.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says as they break apart, stepping back into his room, “I shouldn’t have — have let you —” he’s babbling. It isn’t Wanda he needs to tell this to. It doesn’t matter. Whatever he’s about to say, Pietro isn’t interested. Fingers dig hard into the hair at the base of Clint’s neck and pull. It makes him groan, and he can feel a smirk pull at Pietro’s mouth as he continues the kiss.

Clint’s hands move of their own accord, wrapping around Pietro’s wiry shoulders. 

“I—” he hesitates when Pietro’s attention slides down his neck, nipping his throat. He doesn’t deserve this. He should apologize. To him, to his sister. This is his chance, isn’t it? “I’m so sor —”

“Are you gonna fuck me or not, old man?”

It shouldn’t, but the nickname makes Clint’s eyes sting. He can’t help but let his mind wander to the last time he saw Pietro unharmed, grumbling jokingly to himself about threatening his life. It’s like ice in his veins, and Clint pulls away. “I wish I —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Pietro cuts him off, and Clint is taken off-guard by his back slamming hard against the wall. “I don’t need apologies. I need this.”

For an instant, Clint can’t tell if it’s what Wanda thinks Pietro would say, or simply what Wanda is telling him. He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. Wanda isn’t the one popping the buttons on Clint’s shirt, or grappling with his belt. He doesn’t want to focus on how this is Wanda. 

Clint hasn’t said anything, but Pietro’s hands stop, waiting for an answer. “Understand?”

Clint’s head swims when he nods. Pietro smiles and stands on the balls of his feet to kiss his mouth again. He’s alarmingly dominating, forcing Clint to stand with his back straight against the wall as he holds his face still. It feels delicious and soothing after all the hysteria he’s been through in this past week. Calming. Clint lets Pietro’s hands work his open jeans down his hips. 

The thought goes through Clint’s head that he’s being tricked into remembering relationship discussions with Laura differently than they actually happened. Maybe they never actually agreed on an open marriage when he started doing field missions with the SHIELD. Maybe that was Wanda’s doing. He rips away as the thought coalesces, but Pietro’s hands clench tight in his hair, keeping him close.

“Don’t worry,” Pietro’s voice is a low rumble in his ear. “That was there before.” Before Clint lets the proof of being in his head shatter the image, Pietro adds, “My sister wouldn’t do that to you. She likes you.”

“Didn’t think she liked me _this_ much,” Clint tries to joke, but Pietro only shrugs.

“She doesn’t, really. I mean, she does, but...” He shifts back so that Clint can see him wink. “Not as much as me.” 

She has to be fucking with him now. There’s no way that’s true. 

When Pietro moves forward again, Clint’s nerves get the better of him and he presses back against the wall. 

“What makes me so special?” he asks, regretting it as the words leave his mouth. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was last in line. “I have to be the least impressive one in this whole damn team.”

Pietro narrows his eyes. “You talk too much. Maybe you’re right, I should go try with Captain America instead.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Clint before he can stop it. “Pretty sure he’s saving himself for another escaped Hydra experiment.” It feels too dark to laugh about once he’s said it aloud, and he feels a little guilty for saying anything. Pietro raises his eyebrows, but lets it drop when Clint doesn’t elaborate.

“You asked ‘why you’,” he says finally, a bit of a huff to his voice. “Because you want it. Don’t you?” 

When Clint fails to answer right away, Pietro smirks. 

“ _I’ll know if you’re lying,_ ” he says in a sing-song voice, and tilts his head to one side, his messy bleached locks covering one eye. Clint wants to ask if _he_ wants it, but he knows there’s no use in asking.

Wanda will say yes either way. He isn’t asking Pietro. He can’t.

He doesn’t let himself focus on why. Or maybe it’s Wanda who doesn’t. Before he realizes, Clint has Pietro’s face in his hands, kissing him with so much force that the kid is momentarily knocked back onto his heels. Pietro’s hands pull away from Clint to undress himself, shuffling awkwardly out of his jeans without breaking the kiss.

Huffing a laugh, Clint helps him out of his shirt, and Pietro makes a petulant noise as they have to move apart to pull it over his head. He’s back on him the instant Clint tosses his shirt to the corner of the room, greedy and desperate. It leaves Clint wondering if Pietro ever found the time to do this with anyone before.

The world flips abruptly upside down as Clint’s legs are knocked out underneath him, and it takes him a moment to reorient himself on the floor, looking up at Pietro’s smug expression. “Didn’t see that coming?” he asks teasingly, and Clint has the good humor to roll his eyes.

Pietro settles across Clint’s hips, stretching over him to kiss his neck, down his chest. It’s been awhile since Clint has had someone so slight — and _young_ — draped overtop of him. It’s somewhat disorienting, the wide spread of his hands over Pietro’s lithe back. 

He knows how strong Pietro is, but he suddenly seems exceptionally fragile as he places a kiss just below Clint’s ribs. Like grabbing him too hard could break him. He must say something out loud, because Pietro’s eyes dart up to meet his, knowing little quirk of his mouth making it look like he knows more than he possibly can.

_Isn’t there a reason for that?_

“You’re the one I’m worried is gonna break a hip, old man,” Pietro’s voice cuts through his thoughts before he can fully organize them, teasing and giddy. 

He lets out an indignant squeak when Clint grabs him from under his arms and sits him up with a jerk. Proud of himself for being able to shock that damn look off his face, Clint smirks, barely keeping himself from repeating Pietro’s words. _“You didn’t see that coming?”_

Instead, he growls, “Don’t call me that if you want me to fuck you.” 

Pietro flicks the hair from his eyes with a cocky shake of his head. “You don’t have it in you to tell me no.” Clint yelps when he feels slick fingers wrap around his dick. Pietro leans in close to his face and hisses, “...old man.”

“Brat,” Clint snaps, but Pietro has him wrapped up in another kiss before he can manage anything harsher. Embarrassingly, he can’t even pretend to be offended. Pietro knows him better than he should.

He slides easily onto Clint’s cock, too easily, and Clint is jarred from the fantasy like the crack of a whip, realizing again that this is Wanda. _How could he let himself forget that?_

“No,” Pietro whispers gently, reaching up to brush hair back from his temple. 

Abruptly, Clint remembers preparing him, working him open until the pompous look fell from his face. _However briefly,_ he thinks, noticing how Pietro’s smiling at him now. 

“C’mon,” Pietro says softly, “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Shut up,” Clint grumbles, but Pietro slams his shoulders down onto the floor and rocks back against his hips.

“Make me,” he says with a smirk, and Clint is far too old to be doing this. Pietro rocks back into him again and whimpers. “Fuck me like you want to, come on.” 

“I —” Ashamedly, Clint seems to be the one so easily fucked mute. His mind is racing with a thousand thoughts a minute but none of them seem capable of making it past his teeth. Pietro is chewing knowingly on his lip, staring down at Clint with bright eyes.

He doesn’t say anything, but Clint hears a litany of begging in his head clear as if he’s speaking aloud. _Please fuck me please fuck me please._ He nods, distracted, and bites Pietro’s neck, fingernails digging into his shoulders to drag him down as he thrusts into him. If he wants Clint to fuck him like he wants to, he’ll fuck him stupid.

It doesn’t take much before Pietro throws his head back with a groan. Clint assumes Pietro probably doesn’t have a lot of experience with sex, being locked in a Hydra facility for most of adult his life, but he still feels a quick swell of pride. Pietro meets his eyes for a moment, as if he knows what Clint’s thinking. 

The smug look drives Clint forward, pushing into Pietro hard and fast until the smile falls from his face. It isn’t long before his neck can’t hold his head up anymore, and it falls limp between his shoulders. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, the teasing lilt to his voice entirely absent.

It’s addictive, watching Pietro’s whole personality change. The cocky laugh fade into a breathy moan, his haughty expression turned needy and dazed. Clint can feel the muscles in his hips already starting to ache from doing this on the floor, but he’s not going to stop now. Whatever pain he feels in the morning will be worth it.

The sounds Pietro is making are starting to get higher, strangely girlish. Confused, Clint looks up to see his hair is falling brown into his eyes. Wanda’s focus is slipping. 

“No,” Clint grits out, suddenly frantic. He hoists himself forward, and the shift causes Pietro’s head to snap up and look at him; perfect likeness, everything back in place.

“That’s it,” he sighs, relieved, reaching up to run his thumb over Pietro’s cheek. He watches his mouth go slack as Clint thrusts into him. “Stay with me, kid. That’s it.” 

Pietro’s eyes go wide, pausing for the barest instant. Clint knows it’s sympathy. 

As if he has any right to have _Wanda_ feel sorry for _him_. He can’t let it go. He wants to. He wishes he could. But in the back of his mind, the thought’s still there. _This is Wanda. Pietro is dead._

“Shh,” Pietro whispers, eyes soft as he cups the side of his face. “I’m here, I’m right here.” 

Clint nods distantly. He can feel his mind going fuzzy. His vision is blurring. He can’t quite remember where they are, suddenly. _Why can’t he remember where they are?_ It doesn’t matter, not really. He can still see the lopsided grin on Pietro’s face. 

“Eyes on me, old man.”

“Told you not to call me that,” Clint answers automatically, but Pietro only regards him with a tisk before kissing him again. It’s softer this time, oddly sweet before he pulls away. 

“What do you want me to call you, then?” Fingers drag quick and teasing over his lips. “Papa?”

Heat rockets up Clint’s spine and his grip on Pietro tightens. Pietro’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. 

“Yes?” He ruts back into Clint’s hips and smiles when Clint gasps. “I can do that.” Clint fucks into him again, gripping hard at his hips to hold him still until Pietro’s mouth falls open. 

“We don’t really use that word, here,” Clint says hesitantly. Pietro’s eyes have gone glassy, struggling to focus back on Clint.

“Huh?”

He doesn’t want to say it. He really needs Pietro to understand him. “ _Papa_ ,” he grunts, rolling his hips forward again, causing Pietro’s head fall forward onto his shoulder. “Not exactly — an American thing.”

“Ah,” Pietro answers, but Clint can’t really tell if he’s honestly listening or just knows he should respond with something. Clint probably shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth, anyway. He runs his hand up Pietro’s nape and snatches a handful of soft white hair and thrusts again. 

Finally Pietro mumbles, “That’s right, I forgot.” His head drags over his shoulder, and Clint can see the smirk still unfairly plastered on his face from the corner of his eye. “Would you — prefer ‘daddy’?”

“ _Fuck._ ” It affects him more than he’d prepared for, fire in his skin as he flips them over, throwing Pietro back against the floor. He takes a bit of pride in the look of shock he’s able to put on the kid’s face. 

Fastest person alive and Clint can still take him by surprise.

For a moment. The self-satisfied expression is back on his face as if it never left. He wraps his legs around Clint’s waist. 

“That’s more like it,” he says to himself, voice like a purr as he slides his hand down Clint’s face. “Harder, daddy, _please._ ” 

Clint feels hot straight through to his bones and he picks up speed. The new angle makes it easier to pound into him, holding him flat against the floor with enough strength that he can only wriggle back against Clint’s cock. Pietro whimpers, nails digging into Clint’s shoulders. 

His eyes slide shut for just an instant, taking a deep breath and listening to the way Pietro groans. He’s begging softly, his voice high. _“Yes yes yes.”_ When Clint looks again, Pietro’s eyes are rolled back in his head, the column of his throat bared. 

“Eyes on me, kid,” Clint snaps without thinking, but Pietro whines, shivering before meeting his eyes again.

“Yes, daddy.”

Something in Clint snaps, desperate and hungry, and he thrusts into Pietro hard enough to slam his head back against the floor. He crouches close, tight against Pietro’s body. “Fuck,” he hisses against his neck. “Ag — again. Say it again.” 

Pietro’s hands drop from Clint’s shoulders to wrap around his back, pressing him close as possible. “Yes, daddy,” he sighs against Clint’s ear, “Please, daddy, hard — harder.” 

Clint clenches his eyes shut, holding Pietro to him as he pushes into him over and over, listening to his pleas as they start to slur. 

“That’s it,” Clint mutters against his neck, not really paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth, “There’s my good boy.”

Pietro shudders hard, taking fistfuls of Clint’s hair in his hands and pushing back against him. Clint can feel him shaking and pulls back to watch his face. 

“That’s it, look at me.” 

His pupils are blown and his eyes unfocused, but Clint cups the back of his head to keep it from lulling back against the floor. 

“Tell me —” Clint starts, but his words get caught on his tongue.

_You can’t ask him that._

Strangely enough, Pietro seems to know what he means to say, anyway. “Want — I want it, daddy. Fuck — fuck me.” 

Nodding furiously, Clint leans back onto his heels, dragging Pietro up to sit into his lap.

Pietro cries out and sags against Clint’s chest as Clint rocks forward into him, letting his arms drape limply over Clint’s back. He’s still murmuring, but it doesn’t quite sound like English anymore, mostly loud breaths against Clint’s neck. Clint isn’t going to last much longer. He doesn’t think Pietro can, either. At least he hopes not.

Turning his head, Clint can just barely reach to kiss Pietro’s jaw, his heart clenching when he feels Pietro’s grip on him tighten when he does. 

“Want you to come for me, kid,” he says gently, one hand sliding down between them to stroke Pietro’s cock. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

He isn’t sure why, but the air changes as the words leave his mouth. Clint feels his chest go tight, and hears an odd hitch in Pietro’s breath. Suddenly, it’s the most important thing he can say. 

“I’ve got you,” he repeats breathlessly, shifting so that Pietro falls back against Clint’s free arm. “You’re okay, I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Something is different about Pietro’s face. The self-assuredness is gone, the smirk turned down. He looks unnervingly on the verge of tears, and for an instant, it makes Clint stop entirely.

“No — _no_.” Pietro grabs for Clint again, rocking softly against him as he buries his face against Clint’s neck. “Don’t stop. Please, daddy.” 

Clint swallows hard and nods before moving again, hand moving at the same pace as his thrusts.

“It’s okay,” he babbles again, and there’s a reason he keeps saying this, he knows there is, but he can’t quite remember what it is. “It’s okay, kid, I’ve got you. You’re safe.” 

Pietro’s whole body tenses abruptly, and he comes hard in Clint’s hand, whimpering when Clint stops moving for a breath.

Clint feels tears against his neck. He can’t even tell if they’re his or Pietro’s, but he doesn’t understand why either of them would be crying. It’s like something just out of reach in his mind. Something’s wrong. 

“Don’t stop,” Pietro mumbles against his shoulder. “Please.”

Nodding, Clint starts to thrust again, wrapping both his arms over Pietro’s back to hold him close. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, petting back Pietro’s hair from his face. “You’re okay.” He feels Pietro nod, nestled tightly in the crook of Clint’s neck.

He’s close when Pietro pulls away. Instantly, Clint panics, not wanting to stop touching him. _If you let go, he’ll disappear._ He doesn’t understand why the thought is there, but it’s suddenly all he can hear, and his fingers wrap tight around Pietro’s arms to hold him still.

It’s odd to see Pietro crying. He never has before. 

“It’s all right,” Pietro tells him, placing his hands on either side of Clint’s face. “It’s all right, I’m here.” 

He’s not breaking eye contact, and a shiver runs up Clint’s back. Pietro is still stroking his face.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, and Clint knows he can tell how close he is. “I’m here, daddy. I’m all right.”

Clint’s eyes slide shut as he comes, falling forward until he and Pietro both topple back against the floor. There’s a soft grunt of a laugh in his ear as Pietro’s back hits the floor. His ankles are still locked over Clint’s waist, even after Clint pulls out of him. Neither of them move again for quite some time, panting hard, save Pietro’s fingers toying absently with the hair at Clint’s neck.

“Did I wear you out already?” Pietro teases after a moment, but he’s too breathless for it to have any bite, and the air is still too thick with something Clint can’t understand for the joke to hit. Clint sits up on his elbows to get a good look of Pietro’s face. He’s smiling again, but it looks strangely forced now, especially when his face is still wet.

“I — did I hurt you?” Clint asks, wiping the tears from his face. Pietro scoffs, rolling his eyes, but fresh tears slide over Clint’s fingers, and he pulls away. “Hey, kid, are you —?”

“I have a name, you know,” Pietro says fondly, smirk back in place. Clint nods. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, they won’t.

“I’m aware.”

Pietro’s smile fades and his voice drops, barely a whisper when he asks, “Say it.”

“Pietro,” Clint says slowly, and there’s an uncomfortable twinge at the back of his mind again, reminding him something is off. But Pietro moans, eyes falling shut, and the thought is gone as soon as it came.

“Again,” Pietro whispers, not opening his eyes.

“Piet —” Pietro cuts him off, surging forward to pull Clint into a kiss, harsh and desperate and mostly teeth. Clint’s caught off-guard, gasping for breath when Pietro breaks the kiss. It’s barely for an instant before he’s back on him, peppering kisses over his face, down his neck.

“Say it again.”

Clint loses track of how many times he whispers Pietro’s name against his skin, each one starting to slur into the next until it barely sounds the same. Pietro doesn’t seem to mind, already squirming in Clint’s lap again. Clint doesn’t know if it’s just because the kid is in his early twenties or because he’s part of a Hydra experiment, but either way, Clint feels inadequate in comparison.

“Just — just talk to me,” Pietro says suddenly, “Say my name, daddy, please.”

Clint nods, kissing his face. “I’ve got you, Pietro, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay, Pietro.”

The words feel abruptly familiar in a way it shouldn’t. Something wrong stands out starkly in his mind, but before he can focus on it, it’s gone, Pietro’s hand on his face. 

“No,” Pietro mumbles, breathless, and Clint realizes his other hand is working furiously over his cock. “Stay with me, tell me.”

 _“Stay with me.”_ Something’s familiar about that, too.

Pietro kisses him again, and Clint wraps his fingers over Pietro’s to help bring him to the edge. He’s shivering and whimpering in his arms and blood is pounding in Clint’s ears. 

“Come on, Pietro,” he says gently as they break apart. “Come for me.”

Pietro cries out and comes against Clint’s chest, shuddering in his arms like he’s sobbing. There’s a weight settling heavy in Clint’s lungs. He can barely breathe, clinging to Pietro as if afraid he’s going to vanish in thin air.

_You had that thought before. Why?_

Clint can feel Pietro’s breathing going even and heavy against his neck. “Still with me, kid?” he asks without thinking, and Pietro lets out a loud breath. He doesn’t answer, and the silence hangs heavy over them. Clint starts when he feels fingers drag over his throat. He looks down to see Pietro watching him, eyes distant and clouded.

“Hey,” he says, “Look at me, you okay?”

Pietro meets his eyes, hand trailing up the side of Clint’s face. “It’s not your fault,” he says slowly. “I know you think it is, but I...Please don’t feel guilty.” 

Clint blinks confusedly at him. “Guilt — guilty for what?”

Pietro frowns. After all the self-satisfied little smirks, it looks misplaced on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says instead of answering, “I only wanted to give you — you wanted me to take it away, I heard it.”

“What…?” A strong sense of foreboding settles on Clint’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what Pietro’s saying, but he feels like he should. Something’s wrong, something’s happened. “Take what away? What’d you do?”

Pietro shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to take it from you, but you wanted it so much.”

“Take _what?_ ” Clint asks, his heart is hammering in his chest now. “What did I want?”

Pietro’s smiling, but his voice cracks. “To forget it was me.”

Clint’s body seems to understand before his mind can catch up, ripping away from Wanda as her hair falls brown and lank over her shoulders. She’s no longer naked, and Clint wonders for a moment if she ever even was. The room comes back into focus around them a section at a time, like pieces in a puzzle. 

Had they been at the new facility the whole time? Clint tries to remember where he thought they were a moment ago, but his memory supplies nothing. They hadn’t been anywhere. He’s not able to wrap his brain around what the fuck just happened.

“Wh — I — what?”

“Relax,” Wanda says gently, “It’ll all come back easier if you relax.” She reaches for him, but Clint jerks away, grabbing her wrist.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, feeling a stab of guilt when Wanda cringes at his tone. It’s not fair. He’s not the bad guy, here. She _tricked_ him. “What — what did you _do_ to me?”

She at least has the decency to look remorseful. “It wasn’t in your head,” she says in a tone Clint thinks is probably meant to be reassuring. “I mean, not fully. It’s just...you wanted Pietro, and I wanted...I wanted to.” 

Clint doesn’t know what she means by that. He doubts he really _wants_ to know what she means by that. “Why did you — _why?_ ”

“You didn’t — you didn’t want to remember,” she says, voice tight. The memory of knowing it was her when this started begins creeping back as Wanda speaks, but it doesn’t make anything easier to understand. “I wanted to help.”

Clint’s head is starting to throb, memories clicking jarringly back into place after being waved away. He drops his hold on Wanda, and she places her hand gingerly on his neck. “I’m sorry, I just wanted — after everything you did for me, I wanted to — to make you happy.” 

The sound of Wanda’s voice on the verge of tears feels somehow even more out of place than Pietro’s had been. 

_It wasn’t Pietro._

Memories are starting to come into focus, slow and faded. It’s something bad, something horrible happened and she’s not letting him see. 

He had seen it before. He almost knows what it is. She’s petting back his hair soothingly, and her hands feel so much like Pietro’s had it’s making Clint’s head spin.

“You wanted to forget, and I — I wanted him back, too.”

The words give him tunnel vision. Pietro falling to the dirt, riddled with bullets after covering Clint. It’s _his fault_. 

“Oh my God.” The ground disappears beneath him and his head spins. His ears are ringing and his head is pounding and he can’t see. He can’t _see._

“Shh,” Wanda’s voice is gentle somewhere over his head. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t your fault.”

 _“Don’t feel guilty.”_

Sick lodges in his throat and he shuts his eyes. Wanda’s telling him something, but he can’t hear for the roaring of blood in his ears. The reason he’s still here weeks after defeating Ultron. The reason he’s afraid to go home despite his promises to Laura that this was the last time. He should’ve been the one to die out there.

“Why would — why would you help me? Your brother’s dead, and it’s _my fault_ and you — you wanted to —?”

Wanda’s hands are cupping his face. He wonders how long she’s been holding him like this. He’s still hearing the echos of guns firing in his head. 

“I wanted to help,” she says gently, “If — if this is worse, I can take it back.”

“ _No,_ ” Clint shouts, surprising them both. His mouth is dry and he’s humiliated to feel tears in his eyes. This isn’t fair. He barely knew the damn kid. “I want — I want to keep it.” Wanda smiles at him. She doesn’t say anything else, and Clint pulls away from her, grabbing his jeans and forcing them on without bothering with his boxers.

As he drapes his shirt over his shoulders, he starts,“Why did…” He regrets it the minute the words are out of his mouth. He doesn’t really know how to finish that question. There’s too many to ask. Why did she choose Clint? Why did she want this? Why as Pietro? 

He’s not even sure he wants her to _answer_ any of these questions. He knows she can hear what he’s thinking, but she waits patiently for him to speak aloud. 

Finally he decides, “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t know what he expects her to say to that, but she doesn’t answer right away. Her silence is jarring. Clint isn’t sure what it means, but it can’t be good. She’s obviously not okay. Her twin brother just died and now she’s playing dress-up in other people’s minds. 

_“Say my name, daddy, please.”_

Clint blanches. Nothing about any of this is okay. “This — you said you wanted to help, but you...this wasn’t...”

“I wanted to do this,” she admits easily. It doesn’t make Clint feel any better.

“Why?” It sounds harsh and she looks strangely startled by the question, or maybe just his tone. “I mean — why me? Why…Jesus, _all_ of this?”

She doesn’t answer, focusing on her hands in her lap, and Clint becomes suddenly wary that she might try and forcibly change the subject. He moves to say something to stop her from simply wiping his memory, but before he can think of anything, she admits., “You miss him, too.”

Clint narrows his eyes. “What?”

“The others, they see him as a fallen soldier. You’re the only one who misses him.” She smiles, briefly, and Clint is struck dumb. He hears his own sarcastic drawl repeat in his head, _“Quick little bastard. I miss him already.”_

He cringes, but Wanda only sighs.

“You should forgive yourself for that.” It only makes it worse once she says it. Clint scoffs, but there’s a sharp pain in his chest like there always is when he remembers that now. 

Wanda frowns, because she knows. “I can take it from you,” she offers, lifting her hand, but Clint shakes his head. It’s not fair. He deserves regret.

“You don’t,” she argues, despite the fact that Clint said nothing. She puts her hand back in her lap and doesn’t push it any further, regardless.

They sit in silence as Clint awkwardly buttons his shirt he left hanging open over his chest. “You still haven’t answered me.”

“Answered what?” Wanda asks, and Clint frowns. 

She doesn’t need to ask that. She’s just stalling. That’s not a good sign. His mind is reeling. This is still too hard for him to even understand exactly what happened and now on top of everything he just had unprotected sex with a twenty-two-year-old girl. Christ, what if he got her pregnant?

“Answered what?” Wanda repeats, louder, and Clint swallows, trying to calm the buzzing in his head for long enough to remember which question out of the thousands on his mind he’d asked her in the first place.

“Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, Wanda shrugs. “You should get some sleep,” she says pointedly. 

Clint realizes what’s happening an instant before it does. Everything goes black, and time slips away from him.

It’s light outside when Clint comes to, in his bed, but there’s no telling how long it’s been. Wanda isn’t even in the compound. For that matter, neither is anyone else. He wanders the compound for an hour or so, waiting for anyone to return, but no one does. Clint considers the possibility that Wanda is just making him blind to them, making him invisible to everyone else. It’s not too far off from what he would do if he could.

Fine. He’d rather not speak to anyone, anyway. Frustrated and resigned, Clint hops on Bruce’s abandoned motorbike and heads for the farm. Laura’s waited long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Little Mercy" by Doomtree
> 
> I started writing this directly after AoU and left it sitting 98.8% finished in my documents for a year. For some reason decided to finish it last night, despite the fact that this fad is over.


End file.
